


Trying To Find

by tincturedwords



Series: No Notion of Halves [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: And Secretly Caring, Bathing/Washing, Blood, Blood and Injury, Camping, Canon-Typical Violence, Caretaking, Developing Friendships, Episode: s01e02 Four Marks, Explicit Language, Food, Gap Filler, Gen, Geralt Is Unwittingly Considerate, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Thinks He Is a Monster, Injury, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion is a Noble, Mild Blood, Mild Gore, Minor Injury Recovery, No Sex, No Smut, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Roach is the Best (The Witcher), Slice of Life, Smart Jaskier | Dandelion, These Two Have A Lot To Learn About Each Other, Travel, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:35:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23301019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tincturedwords/pseuds/tincturedwords
Summary: Everything has a beginning, how it comes to be varies upon the circumstance and whether it has an end or not depends upon the person.Or, Geralt and Jaskier don’t make it back to the Inn at Posada before nightfall, and it’s all downhill… or uphill… or flat ground, from there.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: No Notion of Halves [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2057616
Comments: 16
Kudos: 41





	Trying To Find

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** ¡Spoilers! Mild Language , Mild Blood , & Mild Wound Descriptions.  
>  **Timeline:** Set post _Four Marks_ ( s01e02 ) , pre - _Of Banquets , Bastards , & Burials_ ( s01e04 )  
>  **Pairings:** Gen.  
>  **A/N:** I have fallen so very hard for Netflix’s _The Witcher_ , like oh boy did it just strike a chord after watching it & make me wish to write for this fandom. Although I did have a bit of trouble reconciling the subtleties of Geralt & Jaskier friendship in the series unlike in the books , I wanted more soft & banter between them. I do hope we see more of it in s2 when it returns. But it did allow me to think of some ideas for writing my own stories about strengthening their bond over the ten years we see in the series , so it has its perks.
> 
> Thus with that knowledge , please know this is predominantly series based , but there will be some elements drawn from the books along with my own headcanons integrated in.
> 
> No beta thus all mistakes are mine.
> 
> * * *
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own any rights to _The Witcher_.Neither am I associated with Andrzej Sapkowski , Netflix , the publication companies of the books , nor any of the actors who portray these characters. I make no money off any of my stories , this is purely for entertainment purposes.

> " Wishing to be friends is quick work, but friendship is a slow ripening fruit. " **\- Aristotle**

The sun had dipped nearer towards the horizon, seeming to rest atop the shrub spotted hills as the shadows casted from the waning light grew longer. With the setting sun the temperature too fell, the wont of dessert was heat during the days and chill during the nights. Yet still they were a handful of leagues from the town Posada. Even the outlying homes were three away.

Normally Geralt would have pushed onwards, his and Roach’s night vision would have them capable of navigating the porous and rocky terrain long after night fell. But with the addition to their usually twosome, the bard who was already tripping over the sparse loose rock in the path and having to squint against the sunlight in his eyes to see the way their trail curved and wove through the landscape. And it would only grow worse, Geralt knew, as late dusk was eclipsed by night. 

Sighing through his nose, soundless but heavy, Geralt sat back in his seat with his legs squeezing slightly as he pulled the reins evenly to signal Roach to halt. She heeded the command readily, and he dismounted in a smooth movement. Easing her reins over her head so he could lead her on foot. 

“Giving him a break are you?” Jaskier asked, a pace or so behind their progress, having dropped back from the lead once it began to grow darker, “What I wouldn’t give for a break. My feet are certainly aching. Might have to invest in some boots made for walking, not that these aren’t exquisite quality. Just more for decoration I guess, less practical use. Although they’ve served me well thus far. Aside from the aching at the end of the day, they’ve held up real well.” 

“Her.” Geralt corrected, ignoring the rest of the ramble Jaskier had spouted. 

“I’m sorry, what?” Jaskier asked, hurrying forward a few steps to both hear better and catch up with the uptick in Geralt’s pace. 

“Her.” Geralt repeated, then elaborated, “Roach is a mare.”

“Ah, yes, right. Of course. Sorry.” Jaskier backtracked what he said, “And what a lovely girl she is!”

Geralt gave a roll of his eyes, “You flirt with anything that moves?” 

His tone had been so flat and gravelly when that was spoken Jaskier wasn’t certain if it was a question or merely a statement that the Witcher believed to be true, either way the minstrel smirked and spoke with a haughty sarcastic air, “Only those who catch my eye and reciprocate the interest.” 

“Well she isn’t interested.” Geralt snipped with another eye roll, to which Roach snorted and bobbed her head as if to confirm the Witcher’s words. 

“Ah, well, there’s no harm in stating true compliments, is there?” Jaskier asked, before continuing on without answer to his query, “For her coat shines and is a wonderous colour. She doesn’t seem the sort to spook easily. Must come with being a Witcher’s horse? Special training or a natural ability? Oh! Have yo—“ 

The rest of the bard’s words were swallowed by a short, startled yelp that came forth from his lips along with a soft thunk of booted feet tripping over a stone. It must have been a sizable one given the poet jerked forward in a stumble, arms flying forward with palms out and fingers splayed in hopes to catch his fall. 

As if on instinct, Geralt reached his free hand out to snatch at the back of the bard’s collar before he could complete the fall, gripping tight to yank the slighter man back onto his feet. 

A choked, startled noise left Jaskier lips at the sudden reverse in his direction. Still a touch wide eyed, but surprised to find himself standing once again, if slightly more disheveled due to the rough-handed save. 

Clearing his throat, Jaskier straightened his clothes the best he could given the wringer they’d been put through today with the long walk in the desert, the ambush and being held captive, and again another long walk back through the desert. His tunic and shirt alone would need landuarying and fine pressing to return it to its once pristine condition. Nothing to say of his trousers that had collected the worst of the dirt and dust from today’s events. 

“Mm, thank you.” Jaskier trotted a few steps forward to catch back up to Geralt, who had continued onwards after righting the minstril from his almost tumble, “Can’t say I’m much of a ‘nightly walks by the moonlight’ sort. Not that there’s much of a moon to even see by tonight.” 

Geralt hummed in affirmation of the other’s statement, the sun had been eclipsed by the rocky hills that littered the high desert yet no moon had shown itself. With no clouds to block its light that could only mean this night there would be no moon to see by. And once the last illumination from the sun behind the hills was gone it would be all the more difficult for the human to proceed through the night. 

Sighing through his nose, Geralt directed his steps off the worn trail toward a cropping of bushes that were nestled near an outcropping of rocks. Its formation was a mockery of a cave. Only extending back a rough metre or so, but the overhang was encircled on one side thus it would provide both cover during the night and concealment from anyone passing by. A rarity in the desert when there was naught but shrubs and hills in sight. 

“Geralt? Wha— Where are you going?” Jaskier called, his following footfalls scuffling the hard packed dirt and natural detritus that littered the ground. 

“Camp for the night.” Geralt answered without a backwards glance nor a halt in his step. 

“Ah.” Jaskier intoned at the realisation, pleased at the thought of rest, but a slight bewildered that the Witcher would stop when it appeared he could go on, “And here I thought we would walk through the night.” 

Geralt hmmed in a noncommittal way. His want to continue meant nothing because the minstrel had followed him onto his contract, humans couldn’t see in the dark nor did they possess the stamina for countless hours of travel without a break. And despite how the near constant chatter and strumming grated on his nerves, he wasn’t going to leave the misguided bard to wander the desert alone. 

Meaning they’d have to break for camp, lest Jaskier end up lagging behind or collapsing in fatigue before they reached Posada again. Geralt didn’t wish to cart the man back due to over tiredness. The people’s opinion of Witchers were low enough already without the town that he needed to pass through taking umbrage with him because he came back with an unconscious bard when he was seen leaving with a chipper, smiling one. No, stopping was better for them, for Geralt, for the bard, and for any other Witchers that may come through Posada again after him. 

Stopping at the lip of the overhang, Geralt withdrew a length of rope from one of the saddle bags to loop it around Roach’s neck and tied her to one of sparse thick branched bushes scattered around. Trained not to wander far she was, it was best to be precautious just in case. He slipped her bridle off after ensuring she was secure. 

Placing a hand on her neck to run it along there twice before he moved towards her saddle to loosen the girth and relieve her of the saddle bags and packs. Quickly grabbing a comb from the inside of the closest one before setting them on the dusty ground beside him, but well away from her hooves if she decided to step about, and the comb to the side. He then lifted the saddle off her to balance it atop the saddle bags. It wouldn’t collect anymore grim or dirt that way. 

“Ah, this is… a very nice accommodation.” Jaskier spoke as he stepped into and around the small area under the out cropping, the sarcasm was a delicate thing in his tone. Seeming to infuse it yet be buried under that continued cheer that’d appeared to inhabit his entire form, “Natural roof. Bit of room here. Nice dirt floor.”

Pulling the blanket up off of Roach’s back, Geralt draped it over the saddle with the side that lay against Roach’s back facing up. The comb was picked up next. He began to run it along the mare’s back and sides in a specific motion and pattern. One that he could do in the dark he’d done it so often for his horse. Although with his enhanced eyesight, he was rarely without some degree of seeing what was around him. 

A shuffle of footfalls from where Jaskier was signalled the bard was still moving about their impromptu camp, the occasional rustle of underbrush and fabric told Geralt the other was possibly collecting fallen sticks to kindle a fire with. 

“Seems he does know something of surviving.” Geralt muttered to Roach, voice pitched low for only her ears to which swivelled back at the sound of her rider’s voice. 

Although a fire would be unneeded on a night like this had Geralt been alone. Unaffected by the cooler temperature that befell the desert after sunset he was and used to cold rations more than warm, but it would be needed for the human. Who had apparently left with nothing more than the clothes he wore and his lute. 

The Witcher sighed, whispering lowly to Roach again, “A very small something of surviving.” 

It was when the sound of a near trip again from the bard that Geralt stopped in his brushing of Roach’s coat, it was nearly done anyhow and he would return to it, that he set the comb aside to walk towards his unwitting travel companion. The other seemed to start a moment at his quick and silent approach, however he eased to a wary curiousness at realising it was no one else but the Witcher. 

Geralt merely took the collected assortment of tinder from the troubadour’s arms without comment, then turned and retreated towards the overhang of rock. 

“Right, ah, I hope those will do?” Jaskier asked, tone sounding a touch uncertain, but still rather chipper despite his company’s boorish silent nature. 

Geralt grunted as he discarded the gathered bits of still leafy twigs, those would only create too much smoke in a fire, but kept a majority of what the other had complied. He could hear Jaskier following behind him, coming round to the other side of where Geralt had crouched to lay out the firewood on the dirt. 

There were plenty of rocks littered round and rather close at hand to encircle the wood with to create a semblance of a fire pit. Someone must have camped here before given proximity of so many and the stale scent of soot that clung to a few of the stones he arranged. Pulling a flint and strike from a pocket on his person, Geralt struck them once, then twice before a spark ignited the sun baked kindling and began to burn. The flames licking it up to grow bigger and hot enough to start on consuming the thicker branches. 

“Ah!” Jaskier exclaimed in delight, smiling with his arms fanned out towards the fire, it seemed more a gesture of joy than for warmth. But the way he rubbed his hands together a moment later, it could have been both.

“Now that’s a skill. Usually it takes me several strikes to get one going whenever I’ve tried my hand at it.” Jaskier crouched beside the now fully aflamed fire, removing his lute from where it still hung around his shoulders to set it near him so he could tip back and sit on his bottom. 

Geralt merely grunted again, shifting to stand and walk back over to Roach, who was snuggling along the ground near her in search of any edible vegetation. She brought her head up at his approach but on seeing him move to continue as he had before, she dipped her head back down. 

He finished combing her coat and rubbing her down quickly without sacrificing efficiency. It wouldn’t do to have her uncomfortable when riding her, or worse in causing her a harm if he was careless, no matter how impatient she was to eat. Only after he replaced her blanket, after beating it out, did he bring out her bag. It contained a ration of hay and usually an apple or two. He refilled it at each town he stopped at if he could, but the majority of the time he simply let Roach graze on the natural foliage of the land. 

However with the lack of grass and less prickly greenery around, he brought out an apple to offer her. To which she gladly began to bite into once she caught sight of the red fruit. As she munched on it, Geralt tied the bag to the bush as well. It’s opening rolled down and tucked to ensure it remained open despite Roach bumping it as she ate from it. Happily she did so. 

Patting her neck once then laying his hand flat to begin gently petting her neck. She kept at her dinner, but didn’t shy away from the affection from her rider. Enjoying the attention as she usually did whenever they stopped like this. 

The sound of plucked strings met Geralt’s ears then, a glance back towards the fire confirmed that Jaskier held his lute in his hand now and appeared to be tuning the instrument. His head cocked to one side listening as he plucked then shifted his hands to the pegs to adjust them. Satisfied after each string had been tested and fixed, the bard began to play a song. One Geralt recognised from earlier after they had been released. 

Unaware of his audience however, the bard stopped to stick his hands back towards the fire then rub them together. This had the Witcher frowning unwittingly. It didn’t feel cold to him, although he knew temperatures dropped in the desert and there was a steady breeze that whistled over the hills and through the scattered patches of foliage. Nothing that brought goose flesh to Geralt’s skin nor set a cold burn to his nose. 

Yet again he had to remind himself, Jaskier was human. 

Geralt sighed at that. It was no wonder then why the bard was chilled, more prone to the elements humans were. And with no out of doors gear with him, the Witcher has to wonder why he hadn’t realised sooner. Not only would the drop in temperature affect him, but there wouldn’t be any provisions for the bard either. 

Frown turning more towards a grimace at the ‘bread in his pants’ comment that was said earlier in the tavern, Geralt shook his head to himself. He wouldn’t sacrifice his bedroll for the foolish man, but sparing the other from eating foraged bread that had been subsequently stored there… 

Glancing down at his saddle bags, he considered the inventory of his supplies. There wasn’t much as he hadn’t restocked them, having intended to once he returned to the village. But with the coin for the hunt gone and his own purse considerably light, Geralt knew he wouldn’t be able to replenish as he wished and his own provisions were on their last reserve. 

“What do you think I should do?” Geralt asked Roach, to which she just snorted at him, still chewing heartily at her meal, “Hm, if you say so.” 

Patting her neck one more time, Geralt stopped to pick up the saddle bags to throw them over his shoulder and then lifted the saddle with the same hand. Then again he reached down to grab his swords’ sheath to slip it over his other shoulder. A final time he dipped down for his bedroll and the cloak that was laying atop of it. His horse seen to and all of his gear accounted for, the Witcher could too take his leave to rest now. 

Loaded down but unburdened by the extra weight to his frame, Geralt carried them over to where the fire was. His fingers loosening on the cloak as he walked past Jaskier to drop it on the bard as he had turned to look up at Geralt.

A muffled squawk of surprise or indignation, the Witcher wasn’t sure, followed the action whilst Geralt walked over to the side of the mockery of a cave that would ensure he faced towards the entrance to the out cropping but near the side that bowed inward most so he could lean his swords against it. The saddle and saddle bags were next along with the bedroll. 

He had just turned to sit down when Jaskier managed to unearth himself from the folds of the mottled cloak in a flair of arms, The sonneteer’s perfectly combed hair now rather askew with its strains sticking up at odd angles or laying in a disheveled fray along his forehead. It had one of Geralt’s eyebrows rising before the bard could even level a miffed, albeit a slightly befuddled, glare towards the Witcher. 

“You’re shivering.” Was all Geralt said in a way of explanation. 

Jaskier opened his mouth, but paused a moment when he registered the words and the actions of the Witcher, “Ah. Well, I believe thanks is in order. I knew the tales of Witchers having no emotions were folly, can’t have something removed that’s bred into all living things. See, that’s why you need a barker. Someone to tell the truth of you, specifically and for Witchers everywhere.” 

“There’s been little truth to any of your songs and tales that I’ve heard, bard.” Geralt growled, ignoring the majority of what the other had said, instead he busied himself with rooting around in one of his saddle bags for a ration of his provisions.

Jaskier wasn’t deterred by the tone nor the veiled insult, as he righted the large cloak over his shoulders and wrapped it around himself without impeding his access to his lute that remained in his lap, “Exaggerating the truth or altering it somewhat is merely a creative liberty taken. All storytellers do it, else how do we keep an audience captive?” 

Geralt merely set out the last silver of salt pork on a rock near the fire to warm whilst bringing out a dry and crumbling oatcake. It was near the consistency of hardtack now, but still it was edible. Not a speck of mould was on it despite the many days it spent in the bag, it had been stored properly the entire time. 

Seeing the Witcher set about dinner, Jaskier’s own stomach gave a hungry growl, silencing him for the moment. Uncertain, in spite of his previous words of Geralt’s kindness, the bard was to press any further than he had. After all he had followed the Witcher without express permission, talked when Geralt had only asked for silence, and was now wearing the other’s cloak because he hadn’t thought to bring his own. Or any of his supplies really, to ask the broody Witcher for some of his meagre provision seemed too big a straw to pluck. 

Instead he tried to redirect his focus to playing his lute, commiting the notes for his new song to memory. He ignored the smell of cooking meat and the subtle ache in his fingertips. 

Meanwhile Geralt was considering the oatcake, so flakey was it that halving it would certainly end with unequal parts or a crumbly mess. Leaving it a moment to turn the thin slab of pork so that it cooked evenly, the Witcher simply decided to just break it in two. Whether it was even be damned. It wouldn’t be long before they would return to Posada come morning. They would part ways, the bard to his and Geralt to purchase whatever rations his little coin could buy then be on his own way. 

It wouldn’t be the first night he’d gone without a full meal, or any food at all, but from the look of the bard. Full cheeked with a healthy complexion, finely dressed, and eloquently articulated, even if his eldar was rusty, told the Witcher the other hadn’t suffered many hungry nights. And while Geralt wasn’t much into indulging nobility, the bard had withstood much this day, even if it was of his own foolish choice, if a simple supper of oatcake and overcooked pork was all he could do to make the night pass quicker for the other then he would. After all, sleeping on an empty stomach was never an easy feat. 

“Here.” Was all Geralt had growled when he passed the jaggedly broken oatcake and the precisely cut half of the cooked pork over, it was a touch dry as he’d let it set too long in the fire but it was still edible. 

Jaskier’s jaw dropped open at seeing the proffered items, his gaze flicked to look at Geralt with such open astonishment upon his features that the Witcher nearly retracted his offer as it probably held no appeal to someone of Jaskeir’s taste. Despite the bread in pants bit, dry travel rations from a Witcher were a different matter it seemed. Yet only a moment the expression lasted on Jaskier’s face before it transformed into a smile that Geralt couldn’t place an emotion to. 

“I appreciate the offer, but are you sure? It doesn’t look as if you have much to spare.” The bard asked, pointing out what he'd observed earlier as nonchalantly as he could. 

“I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t mean it.” Geralt answered with a touch more bite to his words.

Jaskier blinked, nodding once he reached around his lute to take the bundle in hand, “Right. Thanks is in order then.” 

Geralt just grunted, going back to his own meal without any further words spoken from him. A silence descended upon them as they ate, rare since Jaskier had joined him several handful of hours earlier. Although it wasn’t a rarity for Geralt, his meal times were usually spent in silence with an occasional word said to Roach or if he was in a tavern then the hub of other patrons’ voices filled the quiet. 

It was a nice reprieve, so used to it being one way to have it suddenly shifted to another had grated on Geralt’s nerves, but when the bard began to pluck at his lute again some minutes later, the Witcher found he didn’t mind it as much as he had before. 

The strum of lute strings had become near ever present since dinner had been consumed, the broad shouldered cloak that sat heavily upon Jaskier’s slighter frame didn’t hinder his playing any. It clung and folded along the span of his shoulders and angles of his arms, to encircle his back and drape over his criss-crossed legs. Occasionally the notes and humming would stop, the bard leaning around his instrument to scrawl something with a bitten pencil in the worn notebook that sat precariously upon his knee. 

Geralt paid enough attention to know it began as a refinement of ‘Toss A Coin’ but had changed when inspiration seemed to strike the poet for something other. Now no words were being spoken, but hummed. Yet the periodic etching of lyrics in the notebook didn’t halt. Figuring it was a song that Jaskier didn’t wish to be heard aloud, but had no other option but to practise or lose what momentum he had, Geralt had focused on tuning the bard out entirely. 

It wouldn’t do to have Jaskier trying to venture with him again if the muse left the other before the ideas had run their course. Although Geralt knew little of composing, either it be melodies or poems, he’d witnessed the fits of a few artists when interrupted. One particularly eventful incident had been in a street square, on full display for anyone passing by ( for which Geralt had been doing ) and hadn’t ended until town officials had been called. Most often however it was in a tavern where drink or deep woe had loosened their lips and they would spill their misery or ire in words to anyone who would listen. 

To add to the amount that Jaskier had to say would mean devastation for his ears. So used to being alone… it being him and Roach that it was rather overwhelming to have someone around that wanted to converse back and who required a different sort of looking after than a horse did. 

Well, to be fed and rested was the same, but it seemed the bard lacked the self-preservation a horse would have and if he had, it certainly wasn’t the flight portion of the instinct. Jaskier, for all his outward appearance, had contradictingly seemed ready to fight. Verbally or physically when they were captured, sharp tongued and biting the bard’s words had been. 

Geralt had to admit, it only to himself, it was impressive for someone who had never encountered such creatures prior. And whilst Elves and a Sylan were hardly the most grotesque of monsters, it was better than the majority. Even his reaction to seeing a Witcher has been unique to the rest. 

Once the realisation had dawned, the bard had seemed excited? Or perhaps curious? Geralt didn’t know for certain which or if it be another, but it wasn’t the same fear or disgust or mistrust the Witcher had seen reflected in people’s faces when he walked by. It varies depending upon the people, at best it was wary glances and outright avoidance whilst at worst… well things could always get worse. His leaving Blaviken ranked among the worst. 

His thoughts weren’t given but a moment to dwell upon those memories when his attention was drawn back towards the bard, who had set aside the lute and was polishing the fingerboard with his jerkin sleeve. Uncertain if the instrument required cleaning after playing or if the minstrel was being a touch over protective of it. Given the last one’s demise, the witcher wasn’t surprised if it was the latter. 

A metallic tang in the air graced Geralt’s senses, his heightened sense of smell catching the scent of blood on the soft but steady breeze that wafted through the terrain. Unlike the stale, dry scent their scabbing over minor wounds gave off, this was redolent of fresh blood. Newly exposed to the air, although not in excess it was obvious to the Witcher. And since he knew he wasn’t bleeding again, it only had to be the bard for the smell to be so close so quickly. 

Seeing Geralt turn towards him in his peripheral vision and feeling the piercing amber gaze rivet on him, Jaskier flicked his own gaze up from where it had been focused upon his hands to catch the narrowed look the witcher was giving him.

“What is it?” Jaskier asked, suddenly nervous over what the witcher had sensed or what he had done to receive that sort of look from the other. 

“I smell blood.” Geralt answered, the firelight illuminated the stern set of his features when he asked next, “Where are you bleeding?” 

Jaskier visibly relaxed at that, his expression now a touch sheepish as he raised one of his hands briefly from where he had tucked it into his sleeve to show the other two bloodied fingertips, “If you mean this, it’s just blood blisters that broke. Haven’t quite got tough enough calluses on these two fingers to do away with blisters completely yet.” 

It was rather a point of pride for a bard to be able to play at any given time, but with his fingers bleeding and stinging to the touch, he wouldn’t be able to. Not that there was much call for it out in the wilds, aside from his want to dispel with his idle boredom, and Geralt would no doubt enjoy the peace from his singing the witcher always sought after. But again, it was a matter of pride. 

“Hm.” Was all Geralt responded with, although the edge to his posture eased a fraction, eyeing the tiny wounds as small amounts of blood continued to bead up. 

He turned away after a moment, satisfied it wasn’t anything worse. For he smelt fresh blood, yes, but not in contemptuous amounts thus it couldn’t be more than that as Jaskier had said. 

The tuff with the Sylvan and the Elves hadn’t done more than a minor laceration to the forehead and a spattering of bruises for the bard, as far as Geralt could tell. No new scent of blood ( until just now that was ) nor the sickly scent of an infection’s beginning, neither had any complaints aside from sore feet had come from his newfound travelling companion. Geralt had taken that as nothing serious had been wrong following their release. And whilst not serious, he knew Humans were more prone to injury and sickness. 

Their constitutions and bodies held far less fortitude than Witchers, and very few held magical powers enough to be effective in healing. Geralt knew this only from experience during aftermaths of skirmishes or plagues, where he walked away unscathed, or with nothing he couldn’t heal from, whereas many died and those spared were left to grief. Even time ate away at their forms and minds. 

For all his worldly experience and education, Geralt knew little of the exact means to the limits a human could endure. He’d never spent much time around one to know them personally, and from what he had seen each human had their own thresholds. Varying from person to person on how much each could withstand in terms of injuries or would be affected when it came to illness. Barring any obviously mortal wounds and afflictions or equally obvious minor ones, it seemed to depend upon the individual whether recovery was possible or not. 

However annoying the unfailing enthusiasm and near constant chatter had been, Geralt didn’t wish any more injury upon the bard than had been dealt. The other having proven braver in the face of hostile adversaries and death rather well for being just a bard. And while the witcher was certain the little blister wouldn’t pose any threat to Jaskier, Geralt was unwilling to test the young man’s strength anymore than it had today.

Leaning over to grab one of his saddlebags and rifle through it, Geralt quickly found what he sought for and pulled free a round tin that was no bigger than his palm nor any taller than the width of his smallest finger. Turning back towards Jaskier and noticing he still held the bard’s attention, he pulled the tin’s cap off and passed it over.

“What’s this?” Jaskier asked, cautiously taking the proffered item and at seeing a green and yellow paste within he grimaced. 

Geralt huffed, “It’s for the blisters. Stops the bleeding and keeps infection from developing.” 

Jaskier’s mouth dropped open in surprise, glancing from Geralt back towards the tin of salve then back again, “Oh. Well, it’s nothing that hasn’t happened before, they usually heal on their own but thank you.” 

Jaskier held the round container aloft in a low, mockery of a salute to accompany his thanks. Then balancing the flat canister on his thigh afterwards, he gingerly swiped a clean finger of his good hand to gather some of the slave on it to then dab it onto each of the two blistered fingers of his other hand. Grimacing a touch at the increase of the sting before whatever was in the medicinal paste began to numb the irritated flesh and soothe away the pain entirely. 

“That really does work wonders. It doesn’t hurt anymore.” Jaskier gently ran his fingertip over the sore ones again, ensuring a clean application of the few remaining streaks of the salve. A slight in awe over how quickly the balm had worked. 

“Put some on your forehead.” Geralt instructed, an afterthought but whilst the salve was out it was best to have the troubadour to apply it to all his open injuries. 

Jaskier’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion, but the motion appeared to pull at the wound along his brow at the wince he gave, thus reminded of exactly what the Witcher meant, “Ah. Yes, that. Good idea.” 

Sliding his finger through the sticky mixture again, Jaskier brought his hand up to gently apply it there. A grimace returning to his features as he fought to not wince at the contact of the bruised and cut skin just above his right eyebrow. He knew the sting would ease once the medicine had a chance to work, so he continued until the length of the small laceration was covered. Not saturated, but enough to ensure no bit had been mixed. 

Wiping the residue off on his trousers, Jaskier picked up the tin to hand it back to the Witcher, who had idly watched whilst adding more wood to their modest fire. To which Geralt accepted it back and slid the cap back onto it before replacing it in his pack without comment. 

“Thank you.” Jaskier said again, his hand lay across his legs with the palm facing up to keep from unintentionally wiping the poultice off, “For this, and for trying to keep those Elves off me back there. And for sharing your camp with me.”

Geralt grunted in noncommittal acknowledgement of Jaskier’s words, “Common decency is all it is. You’re in over your head, bard.” 

Jaskier shifted uncomfortably, knowing Geralt to be correct and feeling a might foolish. He’d left without anything more than his lute and it’s case, trailing after the Witcher in hopes for a good story to tell and inspiration for his next song. Only for it to turn more dangerous than he had given much thought to, he knew it was but hadn’t quite let sink in exactly how fraught with danger it was, and for him to realise sleeping outside without the sparse gear he owned was decidedly unpleasant. He simply hadn’t thought far beyond ensuring he followed the Witcher before he could escape too far to catch up. 

“Yes, well, I was in a bit of hurry to follow you, so I simply grabbed what was on hand.” Jaskier motioned to his lute case that sat beside him, “But I do have some camping equipment and whether you believe me or not, I know how to sleep rough. How else do you think I travel from town to town?”

“Don’t bards have a troop?” Geralt asked, the closest he would come to conceding the sonneteer’s point.

Jaskier huffed on a laugh, smiling, “Some do, but I am a single man show.”

“I believe the single part.” Geralt quipped. 

Jaskier sputtered, blinking owlishly at the insult. Uncertain if it was meant in jest or cruelly, he decided to accept it as the former. The Witcher didn’t seem like one for much outward emotion, and whilst he was suspecting the rumours of Witcher felt nothing to be untrue, perhaps it was merely showing emotions was a taboo for their kind or that they were incapable of it? But showing wasn’t the same as not feeling. Thus the bard took the comment in stride, as a bantered joke at his expense. 

“I’ll have you know I’ve many fine nights with exquisite company in my bed before, and have caught much more eye than I could ever hope to pursue.” 

Geralt gave Jaskier a disgusted glance, not immune to his own desire to spend a night abed with pleasurable company but he did not ever wish to hear intimate details of the bard’s dalances. 

Jaskier allowed a wistful grin to upturn his lips, fighting to keep it from turning wicked when he noticed the Witcher’s glare heighten at most likely guessing what he was going to say next, “Truly, I could tell you of this one night, the e—“ 

“Shut up, bard.” 

“Oh, but you’ll like th—“ 

“I’m taking my cloak back.” 

“And I’m shutting up.” 

Geralt huffed, doubting the musician could be silent for any great length of time. Placated that it wouldn’t be about any nightly activities, but not smug given that observation over Jaskier’s penchant for talking and seeming want for noise to fill the quiet. 

He proved himself correct again when not barely a minute later a noise came from the bard in the shape of a yawn. It seemed to have surprised the other by the expression he wore after it had ended and the glance he flicked towards Geralt. 

“Get some sleep.” Was all he said, “Morning comes faster than you’d expect, and I won’t wait for you.” 

Jaskier blinked, nervous now over the prospect of being left behind if he slept too late and it dispelled his want for rest a slight. Although his fatigue was still nagging at his limbs and mind, begging for a respite greater than merely sitting. Gathering a breath then releasing it, he nodded. 

“Right, yes. You’re right.” Jaskier wrapped the cloak tighter round himself, hoping that at least the Witcher wouldn’t leave without it and thus would wake him to get it back at least. He could stumble after the Witcher then, half awake, but he wouldn’t be left to wake up alone.

Shuffling further away from the fire, just enough to lay down on his side and not be in danger of encountering the fire pit if he stretched or turned in his sleep, Jaskier bid, “Good night.” 

He received no reply in return, but Jaskier hadn’t expected much of one. Inconspicuously he snuggled deeper into the large cloak, the fabric travel worn and rough but infinitely warm and solid enough to entrap it, to ward off the increase in the chill around from moving away from the fire and the new position. 

Listening to the crackles and occasional pops from the fire, the soft rustle of the light but cool breeze blowing through the sparse shrubbery around and the whistling quality it held as it passed through the shallow canyons of rock, Jaskier lay there waiting to hear Geralt move to settle down as well. But no such sound came. Even Roach shuffled on her hooves from where she was tied, one of her hind legs bent to rest against the other and she brought her head down to be held in a relaxed position as she too dozed. 

A few minutes more of simply laying there, with sleep continuing to tug at his consciousness, Jaskier had to wonder what tomorrow would bring. He certainly had a story to tell now and a song in the works to tell it, but he didn’t wish this to be the end.

To part with the Witcher after they reach Posada again. A sense of anxiety and wrongness thrummed through Jaskier at the very notion, eased only when his thoughts turned to continuing his travels with the Witcher. Perhaps it was Destiny attempting to tell him something? 

Whether so or not, Jaskier was determined to see that he at least tried his damndest to convince the Witcher to allow him to come along. Even if he had to trail behind until he could. Formulating a plan didn’t take much effort, simply he would follow Geralt back to Inn. Leaving the Witcher to tell the man who hired him that the job was done whilst Jaskier hurried to his room to pack and rush back. He could do that, pay his dues, grab some dry provisions from the innkeeper, and still catch the Witcher before he left the town. He was certain of it. 

With that resolve in mind, Jaskier could feel his nervousness tamper off and the pull of sleep began to win out. His limbs heavy and each breath growing deeper, it didn’t take much longer before he was asleep and lightly snoring. 

_TBC._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** Definitely a slice of life piece this first chapter, but there’s plenty more to come in ways of action / hurt / comfort / angst / etc. in the following chapters.
> 
> Please if you feel so inclined leave a comment or review , whether it’s constructive criticism or a reaction whether good / bad / etc. or simple ‘i liked or didn’t like it’ , I’d appreciate it ! But as always never feel obligated to do so , if you are merely here to read , that’s all right as well.


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